


The Bar Between the Worlds

by TricksterShi



Series: The Pie Bitch 'Verse [8]
Category: Original Work, Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Gen, Minor Character(s), Party Animal Gods, Rough Kissing, So all these gods walk into a bar, bit of Violence, meanwhile back at the ranch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:23:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TricksterShi/pseuds/TricksterShi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coyote has an itch under his skin and the need for a drink.  Re-directing the Winchester family future is a frustrating, thirsty job, and even gods need a night off every once in a while.  Also, the general plot thickens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bar Between the Worlds

The Bar sits in an open field between the worlds where the sky is always at twilight and the beer inside is always cold.  It’s not much to look at on the outside; the building appears derelict with the windows dark, the paint chipping away, and the shutters hanging on by a single rusty hinge.  The front door is propped open with an old metal coffee can filled with rocks.

Coyote strides up to the door and goes inside.  Stepping over the threshold puts him in a room lit with bright neon and music sitting so heavy in the air it almost has a texture.  It’s a slow night tonight; Rabbit is at a pool table playing against Crow, who is losing because he gets distracted by Rabbits strategically chosen clothing and the enchanted gold and turquoise rings she flashes whenever Crow tries to pay attention to the game.  Bacchus is passed out in a corner, wine staining his lips while the vines in his hair take root in the sawdust floor and bloom a rash of flowers as thick as shag carpet.

There’s a faint hint of lightning in the air and a table of empty tankards, meaning Thor just left.  That’s just as well.  Coyote can’t resist when it comes to the blond, blustering Norseman, and Coyote is a tad too much like Loki for Thor’s taste, so it usually ends in things like the Grand Canyon happening. 

Or Panama. 

Coyote smiles.  Good times.

It’s a pity Loki is too wrapped up in his daddy issues and insanity for a play date.  Loki is an absolute bastard, but when he gets on a roll it is a thing of beauty.  He’s not bad between the sheets, either.

And, of course, Revenge is there. 

Rabbit glances his way, sends him a smirk and a lazy salute as Crow fixates on the cleavage she leans down to present.  Coyote returns it and sidles up to the bar where the Harlots are mixing drinks and playing poker.

“Usual?” Keezia asks.  She has a martini in one hand and spreads her hand of diamonds on the rough bar.  Her silver hair is piled high on her head and she wears glittering rings on every finger. 

“Please,” Coyote answers.

Eudora, squat in stature and wearing glasses that magnify her eyes three times their actual size, spits in disgust and tosses her cards onto the table. 

“This is getting boring, you keep winning,” Eudora adjusts her glasses and takes a swig of beer.  “Is there anyone that needs dying, yet?” 

Eudora looks like how Mrs. Claus is always depicted, her gray hair in ringlets and body round in the middle and skinny on the ends.  Of course, the real Mrs. Claus has a penchant for eating people every once in a while.  Eudora just likes to cut their threads.

Boots, the most mature of the lot, rolls her eyes as she brings a bottle of tequila. She has engine grease in the creases of her knobby hands and a stained bandanna wrapped around her short hair. Boots sets the bottle in front of Coyote with two shot glasses and goes back to fiddling with some kind of car part she has laid out on her end of the bar. Coyote takes them with a respectful nod. He pours a shot and knocks it back, follows it with a satisfied sigh. The Fates have changed names and appearances since the Beginning, but they’ve only gotten the hang of producing good alcohol since Prohibition.

“Perfection,” he says.

Keezia and Eudora are already playing another hand, the pile of soul strings growing between them.  Boots smirks.

“She’s been waiting over there for a bit,” she says with a nod to a dimly lit corner. 

Coyote takes the shot glasses and the bottle, walking with an easy roll to his step, to Revenge.

“You must be the one who drank Bacchus under the table,” Coyote says and pours the shots even though Revenge still has a glass of red wine in her hand.

“He doesn’t have the constitution for my kind of drink,” she puts her wine aside and picks up the shot glass with a delicate grip. 

They knock glasses and down the tequila in a single swallow.  It burns just right going down, a trail of sun kissed sand and tangy lime like tomorrow’s regret.

“John Winchester is on a new path,” Revenge smooths the wrinkles in her gown.  Coyote can smell the senior Winchester on her.  “Word of my interference has already spread.  Demons are massing at the cracks trying to squeeze through.  Those on earth are trying to find the Winchester boys.”

Coyote takes another shot and hums through the burn.

“And the angels?”

“Shook off a couple before I got here, haven’t had a face to face.  Pure intent makes me lose my appetite,” she grimaces.

“Leave the angels to me.  I have a few tricks I’m eager to try out.”

Revenge smiles and sits back with her wine glass.  The smoky, heady haze settles around her once again.  Coyote drinks until half the bottle is gone before Revenge finishes her wine. 

“Care to join me for the night?”

She trails a hand over Coyote’s arm, nails scratching against his skin and inciting sparks inside his veins.  The scent of crushed sage and blood fill his nose, taking him out of the Bar and into another place so far away, to a time where a woman with flowing hair was not a sleeping mountain.

He opens his eyes and forces the images away.

“Another time, perhaps.”

She inclines her head with a secret smile and takes her leave.  The sage and the blood leave with her, but the restless gnawing inside stays.

Coyote closed his eyes and breathes out. 

Rabbit slides into the abandoned seat and snatches the bottle right from Coyote’s fingers.  She takes a swig and kicks her feet up on the table.

“Get tired of Crow already?” Coyote asks.

“He is too easy tonight,” she says.  “I need a challenge.”

Coyote drinks down his shot.  Rabbit refills the glass.  Coyote considers the golden liquid for a moment and tips his hat back up his forehead.

“John is taken care of, which makes three Winchesters down.  How do you feel about leading some angels on a game of hide and seek with the fourth?”

A feral grin splits Rabbit’s lips.  She looks positively wicked in the flickering neon as she rests the bottle between her legs.

“You’d actually give up your claim on their transformations?  My, my,” she leans back.  “Miracles do happen.”

Coyote flashes teeth, feels the predator ripple under his skin before he beds it back down.  Times have changed, but Rabbit will always brings out the hunt in him.  The days where he would pursue her through the worlds, snapping at her hind legs, and living for the promise of blood rolling over his tongue still beckon.

He has spent too long guiding the young and stupid, as amusing as that was.  The hunt is rising inside; it demands a bloody chase.

“Call it a gift.  I don’t mind sharing some of my toys.”

Rabbit levels him a knowing look and her eyes catch the light just right, turning them into pale yellow orbs. 

“Especially if it means sticking one to the angels, I see how it is,” she laughs.  “I’ll take the gift.  It’s bound to be more entertaining than teasing Crow.”

Coyote steals the bottle back and swallows the last of it.  Fire and lime bathe his insides; they do nothing to quell the howling and growling that itches beneath his ribs.  He sets the bottle on the table and pulls his hat low again.

“You up for a game of pool?” Rabbit asks. 

Crow has vacated the tables and sits slumped at the bar, throwing beady eyed glares over towards Rabbit.  Eudora shouts in delight as she wins a hand and knocks her beer over. It drenches Crow’s sleeve.  Boots rolls her eyes and fetches a towel.  Keezia smirks and deals another hand.  Bacchus continues to snore.

The civility, if such a thing could ever truly exist in the Bar, grates on him.

“No, that’s a little too tame for me tonight.”  Coyote sets his shot glass on the table upside down, lets the last drop of tequila soak into wood that’s nearly as old as he is.  “Let’s race.”

They stand and Rabbit pushes in, pressing against Coyote and tipping her face so close her lips brush his.

“Catch me,” she murmurs.  “And I’ll give you first bite.”

Coyote pulls her in, crushes her lips to his.  She tastes of tequila, fresh grass, and strawberries.  He nips her lip hard enough to draw blood.

“Already got it,” he smirks and the blood is just a taste, just a tease, but it excites him down past his bones and the growl crawls up his throat. 

The punch sends him reeling, but he comes back with one of his own.  Flesh hits flesh, bruises well, nails rake skin.  Distantly, he can hear the cheers from the Harlots, but then the Bar falls away and it’s him and Rabbit, it’s tooth and claw and fur.  They tumble out of the door and into the twilight.  Rabbit is off like a shot, zigzagging through the folds between the worlds, and Coyote is fast on her heels, his breath ragged with excitement.

Coyote lets loose a howl that echoes and bleeds through the folds.  The animals run away and hide; the humans shiver and shrink back to safer ground, primal instinct telling them to run and run as fast as they can. 

The hunt is on.  His blood is high.  Thunder cracks overhead as storm swallows sunshine.

Coyote and Rabbit run.


End file.
